THE MINT of deformities G S Imprinted at London for William jones dwelling near Holborn Conduit at the Sign of the Gun. 1600. To the gentle Perusers of my unpolished Primitiae, THe never viewing warehouse of conceit, like (old Silenus' ass) would fain repeat, Unto the open world, dark ignorance, Making it glow with harsh intellegence, You shall not surfeit on the guilded crumbs, which with uncapable conceits begun, Making the world believe their high pitched vain, renowned eloquence admired strain, With sounding terms to crack the open vault, of unconceived labours, and to walk, The stately round of all sought loftiness, daining fair entrance to each common meanness, This do I hate, all men may me conceive, I seek to please, and not your wits beicave. No Thrasion harp, but a steeled surious whip, no Nightingales, but Mandrakes shrieking sound, Adastors' snakes to make these Thrasors skip: whose cages, vultures, limewands, to confound: the reeking limits of an vnstayd head, with aspish toys to bring green wits to bed. Oh I am mad to see the chopping style, and cheating slaveries of these musty days, The words of art (yet artless which beguile) deep diving vathrifts of their honest prays, yet not their own, for one short year will board what their progenitors did forty hoard, Vertues-decayed-world is out of use, and honest trading minds are clean extinct, Down goes all virtuous means, set up a stuise: a broking brothel is delicious drink: a broker (quoth you) oh 'tis an honest trade, 'twill be defended who so ere gainsaid. Grose swallowing terms disdain a broker's name, which doth support base drudging underlings, Whose silken robes varnish their bastard shame: and foggy clowring-birth-enamilingsh. whose statling-twelue-pences makes the shine as bright, as Cynthia's beams in a storme-wintring night. Whose mastering terms lies in their sattan rags, a purchased shift will make them gentlemen, Though not a penny in their worship's bags, yet are they noblier borne then better men: their suits will gild their gentry, and the rather, the devil is become their godfather. I knew a Piper in a silken coat, so far enamoured of his peacocks plumbs, That needs his painted picture must afloat, or else his gentle mind with grief consumes: who drew it but his father? fie fond man, to name his father, he's a gentleman. I wonder (Orpheus) thou didst near commence? thou couldst have played four organs roundelays, And yet thou never hadst pre-eminence? though thou surpassedst in astonished brays. Now by the Trenitie 'twas not welldone, to make a gentleman a painters son. But who more proud than beggars mounted high, Whose three years gentry from a broker's shop, Will prove his stenching-silke stamped pedigree, from C. sol. fay. ut. or an organs stop. beware, beware, the knavish beadle waits, to bear you to the consistory states. A tailors shears eclipse of this broker's shape, a perfumd-crosseleged-rare-artificiall, Whose gentrie's painted in a woman's cape, a gentleman? why it's common un o all, he takes part with them both, therfored must follow he hath a broking vain, a singing swallow. If any envious disallowing tongue, seek to depress this ancient customduse, Which with the downfalne Adam first begun, I crave the single combat for his abuse, our arms shall soon decide that doubt, & then Tailors I hope are no mean gentlemen. In azure rampant sticks a pair of shears, our coat (out of a thousand) one we'll sort, A spanish needle pendant, and that bears our crest, which is our ornamental port: a bodkin jacent with a louse doth hold, makes our impression in honours mould. Our tongues we shape not to each common cry, we keep our residence, stir at no call: We use no what do you lacks, what ist you buy? but sit securely on our shopboord stall: nobles attend us for our judgements, than who will deny us to be gentlemen. Become our harrold (gentle master scribe) enormous pens we hate, and rusty boasts, Blaze our antiquity? and for a bribe fear not: we'll fee you to the uttermost, here take this velvet romnant what you need, our underboording box supplies with speed. Our perfumes smell not like the slavering crew, of middy take pains, or such unsavoury sway, Our garments undisfigured and new: Unlike December flourishing as May. our hamering heads tired with invention, scorn base upbraiding reprehension. A codpiece breech clean out of fashion, a swim-swamd flapping-lagging o'er the knee, A cost-devised-admiration. Is used of all: oh spiteful forgery. when God fair fashioned parts, unfashioning, they both deform those gracious parts, & him. O that young heads should have such slender wit, to yield their humours to these odious baits, Their careless moods ways nought, but more fit and new stamped fashions their undoing waits, what strange deforms lurks in these motions, must needs be stamped in their fashions. Unfit conceits shipped from the Persians, all christians hating Pagan fantasies, Remote attires of the Graesians, are enterteynd as solemn ceremonies, Persians, Turckes, Graesians, all fashions I believe, are safe compiled in one English sleeve. Let one attire creep in our heads to day, to morrow 'twill be common, odious, It must be single or it bears no sway, if two possesseit oh 'tis scrupulous, some strange-imaginarie shape alone, must fit my humour, or I will have none. To day like a French gaiboile, round and flat, to morrow like a Spaniard, nought but britch, Then in the strange Italian native plat, then in the hot Barbarians swelting pitch, that I do wonder that in London trades, like Kitchenstuff (what fashions have you maids. I know a trifling student three hours space, contriving in what form to make his shoe, First he would have it square, with a pinked race, then round, then straight, at length all would not do, at last he found a fashion pleased him most, but wanted money to defray the cost. What must he do? his wants must be supplied, the ordinary shapes disliked his mind, Money he wanted, but what ere betide, he must have that with labour he did find, but at the last, when the best means were scanned, he brook the shop, & for those shoes was hanged. 'tis strange to see the nature of our clime, our fashion-mongers pass all other worlds, The close-reseruing orders of strange times, are in contempt all into England hurled, that neither Spaniard, Dutch, Polonian, can be disstinguisht from an Englishman. Each Country keeps his native fashion, same England, which doth revel with them all, No method in his attired function, will make his pampered joints unbestiall: a strait Polon sleeve, large Italian scerting, a Spanish belly close, and a French wing. A right Chameleons, no perfect Joseph's shape what God made perfect, that they will amend, There lewd opinions prisd at a higher rate, than their own goodness, or good finished end, inventing trifles now keep such a coil, what God made good, they making better spoil. Babel's new built, confusion rules the tongue. their racked wits aspire to loathsome crimes, Sodoms' foundation is a fresh begun, to make our falls warnings to after times, oh this inhuman fault's propitious, portending wracte unto our weal and us. What do these cutting suits portend but shame, ensinges to bawdy taverne-boulsteres, The stained map of a loose governed name, and swaggering crew of hateful chavilers, whose only grace is blurred in perjury, with mouthing oaths to blaze there infamy. Skimmed superficies of this crew is ripe, and riper would be, but for Tiburns' rod: The saint they worship a Tobacco pipe, and their bedaubed looseness is their God, yet let me give this counsel to that ward, that master Tyburn caper's very hard. One snurts Tobacco as his nose were made, a perfumed jakes for all scurrilities, Another with his hair (as if a iayde, had lost his tail to feed his enormities, hangs over his shoulders with a fond devise, to make a warmer covert for the louse. another slave which long time hath been chained, and got an eare-stamp for his filching trayde, To cloud this shame, a jewel must be hanged, at the same hole the burning iron made, who then dare call him rogue, who seems to savour, the undeserved bliss of his misti is favour. If iewellings obscure such fowl disgrace, and will eclipse the laws due punishment, Who will not lead this jolly swaggering race, to be enthralled in the world's blandishment, but (gentle Roister) bridle your jolly scope, or else the next degree will be a rope- The next that marcheth in this cutting crew, noble Dick Swash, with sword and buckler oaths, He swears the Spaniards his brave valour knew, and says his terrifying frights them most: oh how he lies? for i'll be sworne that Dick, near took a prey, unless a hedging trick. Oh infamy unto a soldiers name, oh scandal to our predecessing worth, Thy death shall bury this disgrace and shame, and rue thou shalt the hour of thy birth, but (signor Bragadino) advise you better, a slitting collar is a plaguy debtor. Tut he is well enough advised of that, if without company he be alone, He will not draw to hurt a man, that's flat: what he a quarriler? tut he'll save one. but it a tavern crew together meet, he'll be the first to draw, but last to fight. Where hath he not been where Belona sways, in the Low countries, there his name's known best, In Brittany and Gascoine many days, and 'gainst the Turks his service hath been priest: all these renowned countries did he skip, when scarce he knows the inside of a ship. Yet will he roundly tell the honoured names, of the chief leaders, where's their regiment, Their worths ceclipse his undesiphered shames, perfume his base thoughts to an ornament, his victories are registered in the book, when I dare swear he knows no enemies look. Then with his ruby-pumpeld-wine-fired snout, a quaffing health must to his captain fly: He that denies the acceptance in the rout, his valure-hating poniard makes him die, their villainous attempts may well be said, that Chaveleiring-murtherings grown a trayd. judgement they fear, God never comes in mind, if justice frowning-guerdon were not death, Then good men's havokes, their pursuing kind, would by their hating-goodnesse clip their breath, and hell, rape cruelty, would bear such sway, that good-reformed minds should quite decay. It that a man deny to quaff his scour, or would leave off before he be stark drunk, Nay if he will not drink so many hours, after his brainless sense to sickness sunk: then straight they vow mutual conjunction, he dies a foe to a belching fraternion. When grosepate chaplains of devouring sin, do channel their lewd corpse with scandold shame, And steels the broken issue of there skin, whose overweining looseness racks his name, then is he mad, and to this Marshal crew, will make conjunction with his Priestlike hue. If any man will drink till be dead, Lincoln black pots will cry Amen to it, A christian-seiming so will make him sweat, with Lees of drunken homiles scours his wit, whose text doth fume out of a smoking toast, lining his belching craft in a good seimd boast. But 'tis no marvel, when all trades are done, the only refuge is to be a priest, When all profaned vice, and murders scum, masked in those honoured robes are counted blest, But I would wish this Marshal keep his daughter lest that a wraying song procure his slaughter. There was a certain unreformed strain, And base corrupted-broking of a place, Crept in the head of an unhallowed brain, Where he securely might obscure his race: ah Nchol, Nchol, that a quóistring room, should be subjecteth to a bloody scum, But where gold stamps, there virtue falls aboard, he that out bids, merits the highest scailes, Five trades will drive one back, (though near so good) and shag-rackt-wits though golden force prevails, five places, when five houses he doth master, and to each one three, Scullion, Collier, Baker. When he doth preach, not 'gainst, but on good ale, when he doth storm, not 'gainst, but on good souls, He not against, but on precise doth rail, still his (against) is fixed on goodness moulds, he envies good, yet seems not such a one, this is a church-like epigramation. He readeth much, and yet he cannot see, he studies much, and yet he cannot speak, He gaineth much, yet all by perjury, he sweareth much, tut that's a silly cheake: he reads on Angel letters, studies evil, his brocage gain corrupts, swears like a devil, Many may ask who this damned slave may be, And may by great inquire find his name, Rather seek virtue then impiety? Seek not too much, too soon comes loathsome shame HANG-LET this Marshal, hate his deformed evil, And thou expelst him, & in him the devil. Let not the fiend mask safe in samuel's robes, Let not the pulpet-hater, and God's word, Let no profaner Gods sacred Temple rob, Let no bloodthirsty slave with fury spurred, to triumph or the silly-cheated flock, by such an untaught-domineiring block. he's an Idolater indubitate, for like a carved image near removes, unless a suitors golden fees do prate, a golden eloquence is all he loves: many good Angels doth he stand possessed, and yet one devil thinks his part is best. Oh that a servant (as he thinks himself) should for preferment) good-corruptings slave) Disgrace his master for a little pelf, dash of the blessed light, and darkness crave, and though that God offer such gracious proffers, he ways them not, so he may fill his coffers. He reads God's word (yet thinks there is no God) he serves the devil (as his unknown friend), And though his private-lurching heart's abode, be fixed at home, on his sin swallowing end, yet are his heaven-heaud eyes with such a grace though God, & his own thoughts, forswear the place. Look to thy children, and reform thy race, the time yet serves, be not too obstinate, Refrain thy lewd paths in this time of grace, with true contrition: be not obdurate. now is the saving time to make thee blest, and die thou mayest a saint, who lived a beast. If that a spleening mind, and storming race, should countermure my furious swelling brain, And with a wounding ire bedaub my face, to make my pen depaint thy mischeives vain, 'twould make thee swear in a revenging fire, whole do it as well, as any in Linconshire, Oh that gross pates whose reasons stamped in sin, should fetter goodness with uncurbed shame, With unresisted yielding to let in, the shameful show of a loose governed name, this therefore shall remain my last advice, love fair encountered virtue, and hate vice. Room, room, my masters, for a leathern pelt, tapster six pots? here Tom, hers three for thee, Since thou hast challengd me, i'll make my belt, break out her bounds ere we part company. charge & discharge (for we'll drink for the heavens,) till one or both purchase the field uneven. A health to my mistress (down on thy marrowbones) oh profaned name common in every mouth, Who would erect good phrases, when such ones as Cobblers, tapsters, water-bearers' rout, who with their rotten-lisping-stumpes unsould, what gentlemen for their due customs hold. Each rusty sect of base artificers, will rob their base hides with the bravest show, And pitch their pleasure's seat as high, as theirs, who triumph in the cost-fantastick hue: for their presumptions this allege they can, when Adam digged who was a gentleman. Poore-tankard-slaves? who think themselves as great, whose prest-downe-backes continual weight enures, Whose grunting labour, for a penny sweats, whose half hours toil one moment but endures. yet do they in as sweet contentment rest, and spend and drink Tobacco with the best. Let a new fashion once come starting in, they with an open sent devour the pray, Their ragged joints though freeze, whose open skin, feels no could-icy storms in winter's days, they reckless stand so they may have their sway, though their benumbed corpse with could decay. The land Lord with a base deienerate shift, to paint his carcase racks his tenants rend, Sink in their downfall, (so he get a lift) he ways not their undoing languishment, their backs be gay, their minds though loathsome be, silk robes dismember hospitality. A lass who nameth hospitality, he's banished for returning to our clime, When hospitalis scorn desteind penury, and egent cripples swagger with the time; this world's faire-countred vice is so aloud, base beggars lusty, stern controwlers proud. Now lustful youth with a bard swelting cry, pursues his eager-burning-fire of lust, Fostering his held fast clog of cruelty, to gain a remnant-limit, which he must, needs cirumvent, for whosoe'er denies, his wrath will butcher, parents or dearest allies If that his mind stand to a loathsome soul, whose dowrie's but an ounce of durtines, His base-ingendred mind without comptrowle, must shroud impression of his beastliness. or else grace-hating vice will clip him short, intoumbing sage advice, which should dehort, When shallow purchase of a broken style, shall ship a shifting name to worthiness, Whose sensual mischiefs rubisht with a file, of fond-vaine glory, hides his scurviness, what must this sensual affectation yield, when virtue hateth shame, shame wins the field. What hath he got, a Moor, his mind's content, what hath he won, a whore, his humour's pleased, What hath he lost, his parents, 'twas his consent, whom did he hate, his friends, his heart is eased, let his deep-swallowing sins think of this cheer, dooms day will come, & then his woes appear. Our youthful minds, is like a poisoned glass, which being broken by some casual means, A slander by (which fain would bring to pass rejunction of the loss: those poisoned streams, impartial either to his foe or friend, will work his senseless bane which sought amend. Let us beware lest that our customed sin, which the true gospel long hath covered, Be not erepted, and our shame begin. to stain our minds, (which long hath hovered) and Gods just frown on our lewd corpse be seen taking the gospel, and our gracious Queen. FINIS. To the worshipful my very loving cozen M. Thomas Rickarde of Hatfield-chase, in Yorkshire. GOod cozen, not any desert of mine own worth, but hoping to be countenanced by your worthiness, maketh me thus bold to rely on your acceptance of this idle work, compounded (as the French nod) of sundry fashions, a thing (which if it prove pleasing to you in the least respect) I shall think it valuable to my cost and labour: I do not doubt but as always you have loved me, so you will not now reject this instance of my zealous affection which I have had from my cradle to gratify you, protesting (if you will bolster me in this) never to step so far into the press again, and thus withal respective ceremonies I take my leave. Your loving cozen C. G. Gent. To the favourable readers. GEntlemen) I do not imitate the new start up fashion of writings in these days, who so obscurely will begin, and so duskely end, as it will both strain their own conceit, & the perusers knowledge, for a man to write that which none shall conceive but himself, is to make a labyrinth to catch every idle brain in: that which I do, I do to please, which must be by understanding: I do not seek to take flies, but to remove fleas, which as I would not trouble myself with the one, so I would willingly reduce the other. Our country's good, the unfit education of base minds, the arrogancy of Peasants, the pride of painters, (like Don Hiltonio knave of the Trenitie) provoke my unpolish stumbling pen, to exasperate the undecentnesse of their nurture, and unfitness of my own nature. If any scorn my labour, he doth me no wrong, because I looked for no other, yet I hope true gentles, will gently conceive some better hope of better fruit from so unripened a blossom, my industry and toil with myself, I humbly subject to every man's censure, craving none to be earnest to know him, who will not acknowledge them, or hardly himself.